


oh, won't you break me now so i won't feel the pain?

by knoxoursavior



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Underage Drinking, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: Yut-lung hates that the first thought that crosses his wine-addled mind isI want.He wants something that Ash doesn’t have, that Ash hasn’t had yet, that Ash will never have now that he’s so attached to his Eiji.And that something is laid out here in front of Yut-lung, waiting, ready.Based onart by butleronice





	oh, won't you break me now so i won't feel the pain?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butleronduty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butleronduty/gifts).



> yea based on lovely art by tumblr user butleronice (who is also on [twitter](http://twitter.com/butleronduty)!!) because i couldnt stop thinking about it and also it hurts :( i still feel like i havent done it justice honestly so please please check out the link bc its rly good and painful :(

There’s another bottle of wine waiting for Yut-lung in his room. As it should be, considering he asked for one after he walked out on Blanca; he doesn’t know what he would have done if his men couldn’t do even this one thing right when Blanca just went out and aided in the undoing of Yut-lung’s plans, when everything else in Yut-lung’s carefully constructed world is already falling apart.

His hands shake when he tries to pour some of the wine into his glass, and now, his grey rug is stained purple, just at the very edge of it. Not even an inch away is the floor, unsoiled. The stain mocks him, as if to say,  _ no _ .  _ No matter how hard you try, this is your lot in life. This is what you deserve.  _

Yut-lung hates it.

Ever since his mother was raped and killed before his eyes, through all the years of humiliation and debasement, years of being pushed down and pushed aside, this is where he's always imagined himself to be—alone in power, his brothers dead, unable to stop him from taking everything that was theirs. And yet, somehow, even after everything he has done, every second he spent building himself up little by little until he could finally, finally get the better of his so-called family, it still doesn’t feel like he’s won.

Here he is, the only Lee left standing, the entirety of Chinatown in the palm of his hand, but his victory feels hollow and his power feels like it’s meaningless.

His satisfaction ran out quick, and so did his vindictiveness. Now, all that’s left in him is his anger, still seething, still boiling in the pit of his stomach, seemingly undiminished even with all the blood now on his hands.

Ash was supposed to be the end of this, the only chance left for Yut-lung to prove himself, to make the world  _ see,  _ to give substance back to everything he has done up to this point. But Ash has that Japanese boy, and he is lesser, he is weaker because of that boy. With Eiji by his side, Ash is tamed, a wild animal that has let itself be lured into the warmth, the giving, spoiling hands of its new master.

With Eiji by his side, Ash is not at his best, and Yut-lung will not measure himself up to anything but Ash at his most feral, most vicious. 

But it seems that nothing really ever works in his favor, and Yut-lung is tired of it.

The sound of the wine glass shattering against wood assuages some of his anger, his bitterness that has accumulated in his chest, but it isn’t  enough .

He doesn’t know how long he sits on his bed, drinking straight from the bottle, doesn’t know how long he stays there, trying to drown himself and all the ugly, angry thoughts rearing in his brain. By the time he drains the bottle to its last drop, the house is quiet around him.

Yut-lung is used to silence. He’s had to work to blend in with it, use it to his advantage, but tonight, with his vision blurry and his head swimming from all the alcohol in his system, the silence drowns him. He hates the way his steps don’t make a sound, hates that he knows exactly how to open the door to Blanca’s room so it doesn’t creak one bit, hates he can stand in the darkness of a corner and remain unnoticed even by someone like Blanca.

He hates the fire that starts anew in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Blanca, sleeping so soundly, his back to the mattress and his hands at his sides. He looks like a corpse at its funeral, with his blank face and his body in such a stiff, unnatural arrangement, and Yut-lung hates it. He hates that it reminds him of himself, hates that there’s a considerable probability that Ash has seen this too.

Yut-lung hates that the first thought that crosses his wine-addled mind is  _ I want _ . He wants something that Ash doesn’t have, that Ash hasn’t had yet, that Ash will never have now that he’s so attached to his Eiji.

And that something is laid out here in front of Yut-lung, waiting, ready.

Yut-lung steps out of his pants and his underwear, crawls into the bed with his heart beating in his ears, watching Blanca’s face for any sign of him waking up. He brackets Blanca’s torso with his legs, pins Blanca’s arms under his weight. Even through Blanca’s cotton shirt, he’s warm, a stark contrast to Yut-lung’s skin, always so cold.

Blanca doesn’t stir even now, and Yut-lung feels a pang of resentment that makes his eyebrows furrow and his jaw clench. He could kill Blanca right now. He could wrap his hands around Blanca’s neck, tighter and tighter until the pulse under his fingers quiets. He could take the gun he knows is under Blanca’s pillow and shoot him right here, right now, and he’d just let his men find the body tomorrow morning.

But Yut-lung doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he bends over, leans forward until his hair, halfway loose from its tie, hangs over Blanca’s face. Instead, his hand finds his cock, half-hidden under his button-down shirt, half-hard just from the thought of Blanca’s face when he finally wakes up.

Yut-lung wonders if he’ll be angry. He wonders if Blanca will take his gun and shoot. He wonders if Blanca will just stay there and watch, if he’ll lay back and let Yut-lung have his way like he should. He wonders if Blanca will take action, if he’ll push Yut-lung onto his back and help, and  _ oh _ , that thought sends a shiver up Yut-lung’s spine.

He wonders if he’ll have to pretend if it’s Blanca’s hands on his skin, if it’s Blanca’s fingers in him or Blanca’s cock in his mouth. He doesn’t think so, because Blanca has always treated him so gently, has always talked to him in soft, low tones that make Yut-lung feel safe.

Well. Almost always.

But even in Golzine’s party, even when Blanca pulled him back by his hair, even when he’d been held back, when Blanca put Ash first instead of Yut-lung like he’s most likely always have and always will—even then, the moment Blanca opened his mouth and told him,  _ As you wish _ , Yut-lung couldn’t let him go.

And that makes Yut-lung angry, makes him want to take Blanca’s face in his hands, shake him awake, and ask him  _ why _ . Why is he here? Why does he stay when Ash is the reason he came back to America at all? Why does he look at Yut-lung with such kind, gentle eyes when Yut-lung must be nothing, must be pitiful compared to his Lynx?

But Blanca wakes up before Yut-lung can do anything else.

Yut-lung watches as Blanca blinks awake, as his eyes sharpen, as he realizes where he is and what’s happening. Blanca doesn’t tense up, not even for a second, but Yut-lung tries not to think about what that might mean.

“Sir?” Blanca murmurs, and even that is monotone, as unreadable as his face, just like always. Yut-lung hates it. He wants to see Blanca break, wants to see who Blanca is under all of his well-maintained, indecipherable masks.

Yut-lung’s cock hardens under his hand, but he ignores it. Instead, he reaches up with his free hand, covers Blanca’s mouth with it.

“Don’t move. Don’t speak,” he says. “One word and I’ll kill you.”

Blanca’s breath is warm, condensing against the palm of his hand with Blanca’s every exhale. He doesn’t say a word, keeps on looking up at Yut-lung with those unreadable eyes.

But even though Yut-lung can’t figure Blanca out from his face or his voice, his body under Yut-lung is telling. His heartbeat is just a touch quicker than normal, though still not as quick as Yut-lung’s is, especially not now that Yut-lung knows he’s gotten to Blanca, even if only a little bit.

Yut-lung feels satisfaction bubble in his chest, feels it spread to the tips of his toes, digging into the mattress below him, and to the ends of his fingers, wrapped around his cock.

He starts to stroke himself—up, down, up, down, to the beat of Blanca’s heart. It’s rough with just his bare palm, just a little bit clammy with sweat that’s built up from his nerves, but it feels  _ good _ , feels better than every other time he’s had to do this in front of a disgusting old man nowhere near Blanca’s league.

The drag of his hand against his cock makes him shiver, makes his breath hitch and his eyes flutter shut, but he can’t help but wonder what Blanca’s hands would feel like against his skin. Yut-lung’s hand is smooth and delicate, just like he wants it to be, but Blanca’s hands are big, rough where a gun would sit on his skin. They’re pinned below him right now, but Yut-lung remembers them on his mouth, his jaw, his shoulder, just little touches, harmless, entirely chaste.  Still, it’s easy to imagine them on Yut-lung’s cock, interlaced with the hand Yut-lung already has wrapped around it, or on Yut-lung’s ass, the small of his back, up his spine, and to the base of his neck where Blanca can easily pull him down for a kiss.

The image is clear in his head, taunting, mocking, but it still draws out a whimper from Yut-lung’s lips, and he has to pull back his hand from Blanca’s mouth so he can cover his own, stifle the sounds that ache to escape from him.

_ This is bad _ , he thinks. This is bad because Yut-lung  _ wants _ . He wants to know what Blanca’s tongue feels like against his, wants to know how Blanca’s mouth feels like on his neck or his hips. He wants to shuffle backwards, just a little bit, just to see if he’s having any effect at all on the man underneath him. He wants Blanca to stop just laying there like a doll, wants him to do  _ something _ .

He wants so much that he knows—he knows this doesn’t have anything to do with Ash anymore. This is something  _ he  _ wants, and he just wants Blanca. Blanca, who's probably the only person he’s ever really wanted to hold him, to see him like this.

So when Blanca frees his hands from underneath Yut-lung and places them on his thighs, Yut-lung startles. They’re sitting high on his thighs, not gripping, not digging into Yut-lung’s skin like he wants them to be. They’re warmer than Yut-lung thought they’d be, but even then, the touch sends a shiver up his spine that he has to fight.

For a moment, he wonders if this is it. He wonders if Blanca is going to do everything that Yut-lung has been imagining.

But his hopes, only just starting to blossom, are dashed when Blanca sits up, easily pushing Yut-lung down onto his legs like he weighs nothing at all.

“Don’t move!” Yut-lung says, but Blanca doesn’t reply and his face gives nothing away, still so unreadable.

Somehow, even though Yut-lung is still sitting on him, he suddenly feels far away, out of reach. Somehow, Yut-lung sees past the mask and he  _knows_.

But Yut-lung doesn’t let it get to him. He isn’t going to let it get to him. He doesn’t care what Blanca thinks. He doesn’t care what Blanca does. He  _ doesn’t _ .

When Blanca stands up and walks away, Yut-lung tells himself it’s fine. Everything’s fine. He got what he wanted. Blanca has walked away from him before, and this isn’t any different. Yut-lung has always been alone, and he’s always worked better alone. He doesn’t need Blanca to feel good. He doesn't need Blanca to be okay.

Only when the door clicks closed behind Blanca does Yut-lung allow himself to curl up, to wrap his arms around himself.

Only then does he allow himself to cry.

  
  


The next day, Yut-lung watches Blanca pack his bags and leave.

It’s fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](http://singeiji.tumblr.com) hello please


End file.
